Outside, the January wind rattled the windowpane. Inside, Mara’s body had become a foreign country—swollen feet, a pelvis that cracked when she turned, and now this: a stuffiness so absolute it felt like betrayal. Her husband, Leo, slept peacefully beside her, one arm flung over his eyes. She envied the easy rise and fall of his chest.
She stayed there until the mirror fogged completely and the stuffiness eased, just a little. Enough to remember that this was temporary. Enough to walk back to bed, lie down, and wait for the morning—and for the small, stubborn life that would one day breathe easy, right here in her arms. stuffiness during pregnancy
She reached for the saline spray on the nightstand for the third time that night. Drip, wait, sniff. Nothing. Outside, the January wind rattled the windowpane
Tonight, she gave up on sleep. She shuffled to the bathroom, turned on the hot shower, and sat on the closed toilet lid, letting the steam unfurl around her like a slow dance. She closed her eyes and breathed—really breathed—for the first time in weeks. The steam loosened something in her chest, and she felt the baby turn, a slow roll beneath her ribs. She envied the easy rise and fall of his chest
Here’s a short draft based on the prompt "stuffiness during pregnancy": The Ninth-Month Cold That Wasn’t a Cold
The baby kicked, hard, right against her diaphragm. She wheezed-laughed, then coughed, then laughed again. In the mirror, her reflection looked back—round face, flushed cheeks, hair a wild nest. She didn’t recognize herself. But beneath her palm, the tight, warm curve of her belly felt like home.
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